[Open Post -- Malcolm Merlyn] The Archer and the World's Ugliest Bow

[redundncyarcher]

It's taken a little time, but after much rummaging in attics and cupboards and what his typist's family calls "shooks and shacks and nooks and cracks", Malcolm has found a bow in need of an archer. He'd told Morgana he was in search of a compound bow, but a recurve would do, and he's gotten just that: It's a hybrid compound-recurve bow and it's

Comments

[arid_white_lady]

Well, the girls are being baby-sat by a friend, be it Neville, Lystra, or someone else, and Aredhel is out to hunt. She tried to find her young Atan friend, but Lukas was nowhere to be found, so tired of waiting, she set out.

She is dressed in white, as usual, close braes and jacket, and carries an elegant yet simple bow, along with a quiver full of arrows. It was something she started doing before she was widowed: she liked to fletch for her husband. This one bears the coat of arms of House Finwe, and is her most prized material possession.

Her footfalls are silent. Her breath inaudible. She perches on an affluent branch and watches. She's concealed and hard to spot: as would any elf be, and more so for the White Lady of the Noldor.

[redundncyarcher]

Leave it to the Atan to make things harder than they need to be, and design weapons that are more complex than necessary: she's free to smirk at the hideous-looking thing that the human is struggling with.

He finally manages to release the string, but it hits him on the inside of his wrist, below the hand that grips the bow. He'll let out a hiss of pain, cursing through his teeth, and the arrow flies wide, hitting a tree branch.

"Whoever designed this, must've designed torture devices in their previous assignment," he grumbles, rubbing his left forearm.

[arid_white_lady]

He looks armless enough, and Aredhel is adequately amused.

That alone warrants a reward, which she decides will come in the shape of conversation, and perhaps even some advice.

And so the elven huntress drops out of hiding mode and sprawls on the branch, and laughs.

"Whoever designed this had a mind to torture any would-be archer," she says, sing-song, from her perch.

All clad in white, her hair black as night, she must be quite a sight.

[redundncyarcher]

"If I believed in fate or the Furies, I'd start to wonder if this thing got sent my way as a punishment for my sins," he replies, wryly, examining the red mark on his arm, just above the leather guard on his wrist.

Then he looks up and catches sight of the vision in white, perched above him. He'll blink, glancing away then looking back quickly, almost as if he's making sure he's seeing what he thinks he's seeing.